


five things

by esophagusnow



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: F/M, dont look @ me, dude i havent written fic in years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11319825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esophagusnow/pseuds/esophagusnow
Summary: When all is said and done, was any of this worth it?





	five things

**Author's Note:**

> you: hip, cool, probably still on tumblr, probably still has the solace of fandoms to help you deal with season finales
> 
> me: quit tumblr years ago to join the circus... but still struggles with season finales.
> 
> there isn't enough nikki/mr. wrench fic to my liking. what better way to amend that than to write some yourself?

There's a lot to take in here.

The first thing: all this money. All this money that means everything and also fucking nothing. When he flees north to evade any possible fallout, hunkering down in some safe house God-knows-where, all the cash is dumped out on the shitty cot before him and he just stares at it. It hurts to look at it. It makes him angry.

All for fucking nothing.

The second thing: he waits for her like an idiot, like maybe she'd come back. It's not like she would know exactly where to find him, but he had mentioned briefly of a cabin by the border, by way of this little road and not too far from this town, and so on. She's smart. She could find him, if she wanted to.

Wouldn't she?

The third thing: there's a lot of down time that comes with plotting revenge. They played Scrabble, she taught him some bridge. They drank cheap wine and he would, while slightly intoxicated, attempt to teach her sign language.

And it worked. She was smart, even while buzzed. He taught her her name, how to express her anger, all the words relevant to their mission and all the words not.

In each and every motel room they slept in, he would lie awake in the bed across from her, wondering what this feeling brewing in his chest was.

The fourth thing: reading about her death in the paper some days later hit him like a brick. He stood in a gas station convenience store, face blank, mind numb. He paid for a coffee and left, driving some miles down a highway with no destination in mind. 

Barren land turned into woodland, and the sky grew dark. When he couldn't take it anymore, he pulled over to the side of the road, got out, and began walking into the trees.

Here's the fifth and final thing: he's not supposed to care. Shit's supposed to phase him like a soft breeze and be forgotten. Numbers once told him something along those lines: "You're hard, Wes. That's what makes you good for all this."

He's failed, then. Failed in every sense of the word. He had gotten over frustration years ago as a kid, the frustration that came with living in a silent world and being perceived as different.

Walking through the soft mud, surpassing piles of melting snow and the first blooming life of spring, he came to an edge of a cliff.

The rest of the world stretched before him.

He tightened his fists, his heart pounding. He screamed, and he screamed, all unheard by himself and others, and all for fucking nothing.


End file.
